Nar Shadaa Rules
by Ephemerale
Summary: On the flight to Malachor V, the Exile is unable to sleep and needs a distraction from what she knows is to come.  6th in the LSFexile/Atton Moments Series


Atton flipped through the cards of his Pazaak deck, feeling the worn, dog eared corners, knowing without looking which of the cards had been stained by alcohol, which had been stained by blood. They were old things: over a decade old. He'd purchased the deck as a green, twenty year old recruit when he'd signed up to fight against the Mandalorians. It had been a way to pass the time, back then. A way to bond with his buddies over a glass of Juma when they were exhausted and brow beaten from training. He had lived, they'd died.

This deck had remained with him when he joined the Sith, when he became hard and twisted, had learned how to take pleasure in torture and death. It had served a different purpose in those days- he had learned how to turn the game into a mental shield. Had learned how to count cards in his head so the little Padawans wouldn't sense him until he had thrust a vibroblade through their guts.

Atton took a deep breath, reaching for the bottle of Corellian whiskey he kept stashed beneath the console. He took a deep drag of it, relishing the burn, the warmth it spread through his limbs. He and whiskey had made good friends back in the day. Back when he discovered he was force sensitive, back when the guilt had consumed him. There was at least two months of his life that he couldn't remember- a hazy series of seedy bars and motel rooms, cheap women and alcohol.

Atton grimaced at the memory and corked the bottle before shoving it back under the console. The exile was under enough stress as it was. The last thing she needed was an inebriated pilot. Atton sighed slightly, thinking about Allia as he stared out the window into hyperspace. They were close to Malachor V now, very close. They were near the end of their journey, he could sense it. And he wondered not for the first time what would happen when it was all over.

A noise from the doorway drew him from his dark thoughts, and when he turned his head to see what had caused it, he caught sight of the exile. Her hair was mussed and loose around her shoulders, her face pale, wrapped snugly in her outer robe, her arms crossed tightly around her body. "Hey," she murmured softly, stepping inside, and Atton smiled at her.

"Hey, yourself. What are you doing up?" he asked, looking down at his chrono. The ship was programmed to have galactic standard day cycles, and the time read 0200 hours. The exile ran a hand through her hair as she took a step closer, and shrugged her shoulders.

"I couldn't sleep," she replied softly, walking past him and moving to curl up in the co-pilot's chair. She stared out the window, gazing into hyperspace, and for a moment all Atton could do was stare at her.

The robe had fallen open, allowing him to catch a glimpse of a long, lean leg. She must be wearing her night-wear under the thing rather than her standard Jedi robes, he realized. He'd seen her sleeping clothes several times over the course of their journey; knew that she preferred a white camisole and a pair of soft, faded brown shorts. She had her chin propped in one hand, her blue eyes hazy, lost in thought. He'd never seen anyone more beautiful.

"Can we play pazaak?" she asked, blinking away her thoughts and turning those big blue eyes towards him. Atton's mouth was dry, and he swallowed hard before pasting on a grin and raking his gaze over her, trying to lighten the mood, trying to hide how much he cared.

"Could I interest you in Nar Shadaa rules?" he replied, his grin widening, expecting her to flush and stutter, to roll her eyes and mutter 'scoundrel' under her breath. To his utter shock she stared at him for several moments, her expression inscrutable. Then she stood and went over to the threshold of the cockpit. She glanced outside to see if there was anyone nearby, and then she closed and locked the door. When she turned back to him, her smile was a trifle shy, but determined. _Oh, Sweet Frack…_

"I brought my deck," she said, her expression morphing from timid to amused, probably due to the slack jawed look on his face. She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled it out, waving it a little in front of her.

Forcibly, Atton reigned in his surprise and leaned back in his chair, assuming a languid posture. "I'm not letting you win this time, Sweets," he said with a grin, raking his gaze over her body. True to form, she flushed at his intimidate perusal.

"I can hold my own; I learned from the best," she replied with a little grin and a wink as she sauntered back to the co-pilot's chair, all traces of trepidation gone. Atton watched the gentle sway of her hips as she moved, and suddenly wondered if this was all a dream, if he would wake up hard and gasping, the exile nowhere in sight.

When he saw that the robe had fallen open and was exposing her leg again, however, he stopped worrying and decided to focus on the game. "Ladies first," he said with a grand, courtly gesture, causing Allia to chuckle and roll her eyes as she selected four cards from her side deck and laid the rest of her cards aside.

Atton watched her hands as she withdrew a seven from the main deck- soft hands, delicate looking, hands that looked like they belonged on an aristocrat rather than a seasoned warrior. She withdrew a +6 card from her deck, making the total of her hand thirteen. "Your turn," she said, glancing up from the game to gaze at him with amusement in those blue depths.

Atton grinned at her before flipping a ten from the main deck, and then withdrawing a +10 card from his side deck. "I told you I wasn't going to hold any punches," he said when he watched her scowl, and then pointed at the too concealing brown mass that she had clutched around her body. "Robe. Off," he said, and her scowl deepened.

When she took off the robe and threw it to the side, Atton realized just how short a game this would be. She was wearing the white camisole, as he'd been expecting, but there were no undergarments underneath. Add that to the fact that she had come padding into the cockpit barefoot... There was a maximum of three items left for her to lose. Two, if she had foregone the underwear. Atton could feel the warmth begin to thrum through his blood and desire curl in the pit of his belly. Three hands… _pure pazaak._

Allia reached forwards and withdrew a nine, and then allowed him to take his turn. He played an eight, and it was the Exile's turn to reach into the main deck and draw another card. She added a +5 card from her side deck to the +6 she had just drawn, and leaned forwards a little, a smile on her face. "Take off the shirt," she said, her voice filled with false-sweetness.

Atton's brose rose to his hairline and he grinned. "Someone's forceful," he replied, making her laugh. While in the cockpit, he generally only ever sat around in his undershirt, pants, gloves, and boots, so when he took the shirt off his torso was left bare. When he noticed her stare and her flush, his grin widened. "See something you like, Sweets?"

"Space off," he heard her mumble under her breath, but she was smiling as she said it. The pair of them played several hands until eventually Atton was sitting in nothing but his briefs and a sock, wondering how in the seven hells she could have managed to win so many rounds (he had been cheating, for frack's sake!), while she sat on her knees, clad only in her thin camisole and her underwear.

Finally, _finally,_ he withdrew another ten from the main deck and laid down a double card. Twenty. "I believe I won this round," he said with a cheeky smile that darkened as he found his eyes drawn to the shape of her breasts beneath her thin shirt. The nipples had pebbled, and he heard her take in a deep breath. Atton briefly glanced up from her breasts to meet her gaze and noted that while her face was flushed, her expression was not one of embarrassment. She maintained eye contact as she reached down to grasp the hem of her shirt and tugged it up and over her head.

She was even more perfect than he'd imagined. Her breasts were round, perfectly shaped, with nipples that pointed upwards, which was slightly surprising given the size and the fact that they were natural. Her belly was flat and smooth- the ideal combination of muscle and softness, and he found himself mesmerized by the faint line that ran from beneath her breasts to her navel. He wanted to lick it.

"Atton," her voice drew his attention upwards again to rest on slender shoulders obscured by a thick cloud of honey colored hair, up to the plump lips, freckled cheeks, and wide blue eyes that were dark with emotion. "I didn't come here to play Pazaak," she admitted softly, scooting closer to him, crawling to where he sat on the floor. He found himself distracted by the way her breasts hung when she moved like that, and his throat went dry as he considered all the implications of what she had said.

A heartbeat later he had yanked her into his arms so that her thighs were straddling his hips and he was kissing her roughly, passionately, too worked up to summon the control to be gentle. She gasped against his lips, angling her head to deepen the kiss, running her fingers through his shaggy hair and pulling slightly, making him moan into her mouth.

For nearly a year now, they had been dancing around each other; flirting, teasing, never fully giving into their desire. If this turned out to be another one of those moments, Atton thought he'd shoot himself in the head with his blaster. "I want you," he murmured into her ear, reaching down to squeeze a breast, his cock twitching when he heard her low, throaty moan.

"So take me," she gasped in reply, pulling him so that she was on the floor and he was resting above her, her thighs wrapped around his hips, her arms draped around his neck. That was consent if he ever heard it.

He kissed her again, nipping at her lips, brushing his tongue against hers. She responded eagerly, her hands moving down over his back, reaching up with her hips to rub herself against him. Atton felt his eyes roll into the back of his head at her unexpected action and broke the kiss, opting to move his mouth down along her body instead. He pressed a kiss to her jaw, suckled at her earlobe, nipped at her neck, licking and kissing his way down to her breasts. When he took a nipple into his mouth and teased it with his teeth, she arched her back and hissed like a cat, her fingers delving into his hair and holding his head in place.

Still nipping and tweaking and teasing with his tongue, he removed her hands from his hair and pinned her wrists to the floor above her head, before leaning down and kissing the valley between her breasts, the space between her ribs, moving lower to press a hot, searing kiss near her navel. And then…

"Hey! Open up in there!" Mira's voice shook them both from their lust induced haze, and Atton scowled at the door before looking down into Allia's face. She was breathing heavily, her face flushed, her lips swollen, her hair splayed all around her, her eyes glazed with desire.

"If we pretend we don't hear her, she might go away," she murmured, giving Atton a conspiratorial grin as she sat up enough to press her lips to his again. Atton couldn't help himself. His eyes widened and he let out a bark of laughter before pressing his lips to her neck again, then to her cheeks, then to her mouth.

"I like this side of you," he replied, running a hand down her thigh to grasp her calf and drag her leg up around his hip. She arched her back, effectively pressing her hips against his again and causing him to shudder. His hand glided up her thigh again before squeezing her ass, and her eyes fell closed in response.

"Allia, I know you're in there. Open the door!" Mira's voice called again, and the exile groaned.

"Frack off!" Atton shouted, and Allia laughed, drawing his lips down to press against hers again.

A moment later, the door hissed open and Mira was standing inside, her arms crossed over her chest, a brow cocked in interest as she looked from Atton to where the exile was gasping in his arms. "Mira, what the hell!" Atton shouted, staring up at the redhead that he personally suspected was borderline psychotic, using his body to shield a suddenly humiliated Allia who was fumbling for her robe.

"Look, I hate to intrude- Gods know the rest of us will be able to breathe a lot easier once you frack each other's brains out, but we've got a situation," Mira said, looking thoroughly calm and collected and entirely unconcerned that she had just picked a lock and barged in on such a heated and private moment. "Your trigger happy droid and GOTO are at a standoff. Guns and grenades, the whole shebang. And that blasted creature won't listen to anyone but you," she continued, addressing the exile.

Allia groaned. "What am I going to do with that droid?" she muttered, tugging on her camisole and shorts in a fraction of a second before haphazardly throwing on her robe. Atton watched her as she dressed, his frown deepening with every item of clothing that she donned, and when she caught his expression, he could see his frustration mirrored in her eyes.

She bent down so they were at eye level and pressed a hand to his cheek, a promise in her gaze when she met his eyes. "Later," she swore, and then pressed her lips against his again, long and lingering. She drew away from him and glanced at Mira. "Where are they?" she asked.

"Cargo hold," Mira replied, and with a shake of her head, Allia was off to enforce the peace again. When she was gone, Atton glanced up and noticed Mira looking at him speculatively.

"What?" he groused, pushing himself to his feet and yanking on his pants. He wasn't the slightest bit embarrassed that Mira continued to stare at him as he dressed- he'd fracked women in the middle of a dance floor before, for the kriff's sake; you can do that sober and nothing will ever embarrass you- but he grew more annoyed by the second.

"Shavit, Mira, what in the seven hells is it?" he demanded as he shrugged on his shirt, and she shrugged her shoulders.

"I'm just surprised is all. With a personality like yours I could have sworn you'd packing a small one," she said with a pointed glance down to his crotch, and Atton's mouth dropped. The infuriating woman gave him a saucy grin before turning and exiting the cockpit before he had the chance to collect himself enough to give what he was sure would have been a scathing response.

Schutta.

Atton remembered his earlier thought that he would shoot himself if things managed to get bungled up again and groaned. The way he saw it, he had two options: he could take a long, cold shower, or he could take care of his current state himself. With a sigh, he withdrew the whiskey from beneath the console again, took a deep swig of it, and locked the cockpit door.


End file.
